Stories For The Strong Of Heart
by stardust-bones
Summary: She became what the silence inspired: a killer, quick and quiet, slipping in and out of shadows. One-shot.


**AN: River is the greatest not−Doctor character I've yet to encounter! Goodness, how I love her! This was requested by a friend− and I say requested lightly, because I was wondering over the idea and she practically tied me to a chair and forced me to write it down. XD This is the end result.  
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**Disclaimers: Doctor Who is so vastly greater than I am that to own it would be like blasphemy.**

Once upon a time, a child was born. She took her first breath surrounded by ice−white light and ice−white walls. There was a mother there with her, a flash of warmth and heartbeat and red. There was a father there too, a warrior's smile and a survivor's laugh, and both of them kept the child safe.

They named her after the musical sound that running water makes, and the name held her close and tight.

But there was a battle there, in the light and lack thereof, and the world around the child became reduced to tremulous sounds and flashes of fights. She couldn't stand the noise and the light. Far away, in the distant hills, a demon heard her thoughts and smiled a demon's smile. And then the world around the girl faded into white, and then black, and then nothing at all.

When she woke up, it was dark and silent, and the demon watched over her. The demon told her the blackness and the quiet do well for ensnaring secrets. Yet the secrets were tangled together like thorns, so the girl stepped into the shadows and untangled them as best she could. Upon its freedom, the silence that she lived in trusted her and spilled its secrets to her.

The silence taught how to live.

The silence taught her how to fight.

She became what it inspired: a killer, quick and quiet, slipping in and out of shadows. One hand grasped a cold blade, the other a cold gun, and between her lips cold secrets were locked and never opened again.

For the next eight years she woke up to the darkness and the silence, and slowly the thorns swallowed her too. They trapped her so tight that they left cuts in her skin, and she grew up surrounded by flowerless realities. She grew into limber arms and limber legs. She grew into red hair and warrior eyes. But to her they were just hair and irises− never did she know the sights of her real home, and so never did she know anything but the thorns.

But sometimes, the influence of home was too much to ignore. Between the prison of thorns, the girl liked to watch the stars. And sometimes, she felt like she should be doing more than just watching.

_And did she ever get to do more with the stars?_

No, Melody, dear. She's still looking.

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, there was a life and a lie, and somewhere in the timeline the messages were blurred. Here one moment and gone the next, reappearing on the other side not as a soul, but as an idea. The perfect replication of an all−out power failure. The connections shut off and reset, and when no one was looking, the darkness wired her back together into something else entirely. There was a girl there, once, but what is she now? Not a real girl, that much is for certain. She's a wanderer, a murderer, a product of belief and testimony meant for adults with too many burdens, not children with too many tears. Meant for machine and not for man.<p>

Yet machine she can't be. She's got too much blood and battle in her. Not the battle that one associates with war. No, it's more like the battle of spirit. Too much red and Roman. Too much fairytale and hope. But they're holding her close and tight, the darkness and the quiet, so tight she can't escape. So tight it's all she's ever known.

If we could just bring her light, if we could just bring her noise. Like an explosion, a bang so huge she'd never be able to ignore it. Then she'd see, then she'd come running.

But no, that would never work. The silence would still follow her. The danger and the dark.

But it's never going to leave her. Not really. She can try to throw it off, but it's like those drunk girls at parties and all they want to do is hang off your arms and she just lets them−

No, she's not like that. Not close at all, not even remotely close. She'd knock them all unconscious and sprint a mile's worth of distance before staying there so long. Well, she'd do that later. But now, now is when she's all moldable. And there we go, the silence is like an artist, but a bad one, a horrible artist. And she's clay and it cuts her and scrapes her down in all the wrong places. There was a block of good, great, _wonderful_ clay there and it's still there a little, but right now it's shaped up into the wrong sort of sculpture.

So we just need to break her down and build her back up again. But we can't do that if she's not here with us. So we just need to find her.

Right, now we're back full circle. There are too many loose ends and I can't tie them together and oh, is this madness ever going to end? Think. Breathe. There must be a conclusion somewhere.

Let's try this again. Once upon a time, there was little girl. Now, there's nothing left but a name like the babbling of a brook and eyes that are almost human and almost alien. But they're good eyes, great eyes, and I'd give the world just to see those eyes again−

_What are you babbling about over there, Doctor?_

Oh, go back to sleep, Pond. I'm thinking.


End file.
